Remember
by ScarletLeon
Summary: You'll never forget, can't forget. And in those memories, you find an edge. You want to keep going, but I'll be there to stop you. Trigger Warning: Suicide


Okay. Another Babe/Roe friendship piece involving suicide. I know, I'm a little messed up, but I can't stop thinking about what war can do to you. (I'm reading Findley's The Wars in English and studying WWI in History, so this is always on my mind.) All the feelings and emotions that have ever gone through my mind, I hope this does something, anything, justice. Be aware that the parts of this aren't written in chronological order. No disrespect intended. Sorry for any inaccuracies. I try my best with what I have. Material may be triggering. Please be careful when reading.

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He was talking quietly into the ginger hair as he held him there.

Roe had stopped him from doing it. It was a shock, but it wasn't. This is and isn't what happens when soldiers come home. He knew it all too well. Some just stop being soldiers and curl in on themselves looking for some special kind of _out_ when the war hadn't given them one. Maybe at a later time, they'll be the heroic figures kids gawk at in the streets, but for now, Babe wasn't that. He was broken and Roe was there to pick up the pieces. Just like Babe had done for him when he had stopped working, living, breathing.

He had filled the bathtub to the brim with scalding hot water. Slowly, he stepped in, fully clothed, and submerged his entire body, head and all. There was no time, no sounds, only a sense of panic and relief. This was it. Maybe this would wash away the faces, clean his hands of life, take away the chill Bastogne left in his bones. He'd never know. He was being pulled out, violently. Water and screaming in a South Philly accent filled the room. And then it stopped. He was on the tile, propped up by a friend, who was singing Mares Eat Oats quietly, slowly, for lack of knowing what to do, what to say. It was the first time.

They hadn't even been back on home soil for three days.

It was always the little things that got to him: the laughter of children, the people walking around, oblivious to what he had seen, even the sun. Of course, Babe had moments, but it was always after fireworks or something falling and hitting the ground or thunderstorms or something else understandable. Eugene was affected by things that shouldn't. Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night to see Babe wringing his hands in the air and muttering. No doubt he, himself, had been doing it, too. But somehow, Babe had been dealing with it all. He, however, was not. He couldn't stand being outside in public. There was something in the happy faces that made him hurt. He'd watch young men laughing and a weight would drop on his chest. It didn't seem fair to him. Why did he have to leave so many broken bodies back there? Why did he get to come home, when so many did not? Why should he be able to enjoy a world in peacetime? He should have saved at least a few more. He should have saved them all.

He'd come for a visit. It didn't matter that they had saw each other less than a year ago, he wanted to show the progress he made. He knocked on the door of his friend's home, expecting the door to open with a familiar smile behind it. He didn't expect the door to be unlocked, and, now that he looked at it, slightly ajar. It set him off in a slight panic. Something was wrong about this.

He was crying and he couldn't stop.

When they had gotten back, Babe made a promise to stick with him until he was okay to be alone.

He was right to stick by him. Gene had come back whole, only to be haunted, left with ghosts. He refused to answer to Doc. He'd always shrug a shoulder and say he didn't have a degree, but if you looked at his face, the way he held himself, you could tell it was said with despair. Eugene needed more care now than he dished out back in Europe. Back there, he was the one running around, checking on everyone, sticking his hands in bloody holes, pouring sulfa on wounds, finding boots.

It would have been John T. Julian's birthday. He didn't know how he remembered, but he knew that Babe did.

He searched each of the rooms and saw on the floor their regimental scrapbook, but no Babe.

He ran outside and searched the streets. Then, he came upon a bridge and saw him standing there, dangerously close to falling.

With his sweet Cajun drawl, he coaxed him off the ledge and into his arms.

Babe never forgot the chocolate, the warmth he felt when his scars ran under his skin. He knew Eugene would never forget either. He'd never forget the names, the bullets, the yelling for cover, mother, help, medic, life. Babe wanted to take care of the man who took care of so many.

It hurt him when he found him that first time. The second time, the final time, it damn near made him want to run away and never look back. He couldn't, wouldn't. His heart was pounding. His ears were ringing. Nothing seemed clear, except that he had to stay just a little longer. He was glad he found him in time, mad that he let it get that far, again, and scared. But, he had to hold on, just like he told Gene. It was his turn to feed him chocolate, to lie beside him until he slept. That night, after he cleaned Gene up and put him to bed, he threw up and couldn't stop.

_Edward. Remember when we were going home and you held my hand on the train? It was the same one I had to bandage up in that foxhole, the same one I cut unknowingly. I never told you, or anyone, about that scarf or about who it belonged to. She's gone but you aren't. We both have marks that will never really heal, but we try our best. I fixed you up there, and you fixed me up here. _

_Remember when you found me that first time? It was hard, but you got me going again. You told me that the ghosts weren't going to hurt me, that they didn't blame me, that they were better off where they were now. You said that they wouldn't have wanted me to give up now, when I had already gotten this far. _

_Remember when you stopped me? I was going to cut every kids' name in my arm, but you held it steady and got me to let go. You said that I didn't need any more scars, that the ones I carried in my heart were enough. I'm glad you caught me and I'm sorry you saw that. But now, like I did for them, and you did for me, so I must do for you. I was mad and I was hurt and I was sad; at the war, at the people in the street, at the men we left behind, at you for stopping me. _

_Remember what you did for me? I would have been gone if it hadn't been for you. It's okay to remember and want to forget. It's okay to feel guilty. That's normal. You said that to me, too. You said that it's hard to shake it, but you can't let it take over. You'll never forget, can't forget. And in those memories, you find an edge. You want to keep going, but I'll be there to stop you. You stopped me. We could face this edge every day of our lives, but we'll always be there to pull each other back. I won't let you go, you won't let me. _

_Remember what you said to me? You said you wouldn't leave me if I still needed you. Well, I still need you. I'll always need you. We all need each other. We all have each other. We always will._

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Voila. I'm sorry for the feels. Also, sorry about the strange formatting and jumping between narrative styles and the lack of a chronological timeline. Again, I'm reading the Wars for English and I kinda like the style. It's chaotic and reflects feelings.


End file.
